Washing the Dishes
by That Crazy Girl
Summary: In which Hermione tries to force Ron to wash the dishes and Ron just doesn't want to.


A/N: Well, I wrote this as revenge since I hate doing the dishes. Hopefully, some of you hate doing it as much as me. It would help you understand the fic **_so_** much better. :P

Disclaimer: I own nothing, save a great loathing towards dirty dishes and my dad's not helping to clean any.

* * *

Hermione Granger-Weasley got home from work. Being a Ministry worker that also happened to be trying to free the house elves wasn't easy, but at least she had a supportive husband. She had been working extra hours for the past week, but today, thanks to Ron, she at least didn't have to worry about washing the dishes when she got home. Oh no—Ron, her wonderful husband, quidditch keeper for the Chudley Cannons extraordinaire, had promised to wash the dishes that day. Ron, who was having the week off due to lack of quidditch practices during said week, was going to help her with the household chores, something he hadn't done since—well—ever.

Hermione Granger-Weasley took off her cloak and vanished it with a swift movement of her wand. She was in serious need of food—she had been starving for the last two hours and apparating yourself from the Ministry to your home didn't help. So she went to the kitchen, took big glass of milk (she was also really tired, so that would have to do), turned to place the now empty glass on the sink and—

A pile of dishes met her glare: unmoving, unchanging, unclean.

"Ronald," she managed to say through gritted teeth. "_What_ are the dishes doing here when I _expressly_ asked you to clean them more than _fourteen_ hours ago?"

Hermione's husband stared at her, his open mouth revealing the popcorn he had been eating for the last half hour; some of it fell on Hermione's brand new couch. In front of him, the muggle television Ron had insisted on having in their new apartment was showing the fourth Star Wars movie he had seen that day.

"Uh— Hermione—!" he mumbled. "I—uh—forgot I had to wash the dishes! I was going to do it later, but I guess I just lost track of time!"

"Well, wash them," Hermione said angrily. "I'm too tired to do it, Ronald, and you know it. I am going to take a shower now and then I will go to bed. When I wake up tomorrow, I trust I'll find those dishes _clean_, understood?"

"Will do in a minute, dear," Ron said, his eyes still glued to the T.V.. "I just want to finish this and then I'll get right at it."

But he _didn't_ get right at it, Hermione clearly saw the next morning. The pile of dirty dishes was there for yet _another_ day after she had _specifically_ told her husband to _do_ something about it.

"_Ronald_," she growled as her husband got out of the bathroom and turned on the T.V.. He turned to look at her, puzzled, as if he didn't know what he had done wrong. Oh, but he _did_ know what he'd done wrong.

"What is it, 'Mione?" the redhead asked innocently.

"_The dishes; they're unwashed—for yet _another _day_."

"Oh— That? I was just too tired last night. But I'll do it today, promise."

Hermione glared at the first man she had ever met whose movie watching apparently got him so _tired_ that he could _not_ wash the dishes that he himself had helped to pollute. "Why had she married him?" she asked herself. "Why had she married at _all_, when—had she remained single—she could have been free from washing anyone else's dishes for the rest of her life, and spared herself the trouble of almost _begging_ Ron to wash said dishes only _once_ in a while?"

Of course, she didn't ask those questions out loud. Out loud, she said: "With what will you eat?"

To which Ron answered: "Oh, I'll just get some cereal straight from the box."

Hermione gritted her teeth. "What about milk? And coffee?"

"Oh, I'll figure it out."

Hermione, however, did _not_ have time to figure it out. She had to floo to work in just thirty minutes, and had gotten up with an appetite for pancakes—something she could not make since, along with almost every other food-related thing in the house, the frying pan was dirty and in need of cleaning.

"Ronald Weasley, I want breakfast! I will _not_ have it from a box of cereal; I have cooked _every single time_ since we got married and have _also_ washed the dishes ever since we got married. You have done nothing but sit around. I work. My work is more challenging than yours. _You _have been on vacation for the last three days; _I've_ been working extra. I will _not _wash the dishes for you this time and I would _thank you_, Ronald, if you just"—she took a deep breath, and raised her voice—"_wash_ the _goddamn _dishes!"

Ron stared at her with the look he always gave when he knew Hermione was angry—that of someone who thought himself in the presence of a maniac and feared for his life. His light eyes widened, he opened his mouth and closed it, looking for the right words. Of _course_ he didn't want to do the dishes, but he also _didn't_ want to be hexed into oblivion by a wife that had gone mad. "S-sweetie—"

"_Don't_ 'sweetie' _me_, Ronald, you _bum_!" Hermione seethed. "You _will_ do the dishes and will _continue _to do so for as long as you live, _if_ you want that life of yours to be long, got it? Now get to it!"

The husband nodded anxiously, resisting a groan. Why did he _have_ to do the dishes? Hermione did it much better than him anyway!

They both went to the kitchen, Hermione cursing under her breath along the way—low enough to seem like it was to herself, but clear enough for Ron to listen, which was obviously her goal. The pile of dirty dishes was still there; Ron stared at it in disgust. Then, with what seemed like great effort, he placed a hand in his pocket, took out his wand and—

With a swift move of the hand, the pile of dirty dishes got washed.

* * *

Read and review! Please? Even if it is just to say how much you hate doing the dishes. xD 


End file.
